If You're Gone
by LavenderMassacare
Summary: Spurred by a misunderstanding, Altair's jealousy creates yet another rift between himself and Malik. An emotion struggle paired with violent attacks on the Creed set an atmosphere for strife and painful reminiscing.Al/Mal, M for violence later love scenes


Summary: Spurred by a misunderstanding, Altair's jealousy creates yet another rift between himself and Malik. An emotion struggle paired with violent attacks on the Creed set an atmosphere for strife and painful reminiscing on how the two arrived at their current misery. Altair/Malik, M for violence and upcoming love scenes.

Rating: M for blood and other violence, a bit of mature language for upcoming love scenes.

Disclaimer: Yada Yada Yada

Thanks to some of my real life friends for helping me out with this!

The whore slipped quietly from the Bureau, moving gracefully despite the billowing robes she wore, curved legs carrying her quickly on the hard packed sand that formed most of Jerusalem's roads. Her steps left deep foot prints, which again brought Altair's attention to her weight. Most prostitutes in the fanatically religious city were underweight, a sign that they could barely scrape together enough out-of-town money to survive. But this woman was very heavy set, almost bordering on obese, and Altair despised her all the more for that. She had a plain face and weak chin, pieces of her hair fell from beneath her head scarf and she smelled of cheap perfume with an underlying scent of horses…what could be seen in such a woman?

She moved away quietly, keeping her head obediently down when she passed by a group of men, but a smile worked onto her plump cheeks each time a child or familiar woman passed her by. Altair disliked her easily when others would be drawn to her matronly aura and smiling eyes, but all Altair cared to think of her was that she was spending far too much time with the Rafiq, who in turn spent even less time with him.

The eagle turned away from the woman, turning his hateful gaze to the Bureau roof entrance he'd been perched on before the current bane of his existent had appeared in the doorway of the Bureau's lower entrance. He grit his teeth for a moment, attempting to gather his wits for what lay below him, _ whore'sstinkingsweat, _and moved the door aside. He dropped silently through the hole in the latticework, landing firmly on the soles of his boots. The Bureau was silent save for the achingly familiar whisper of quill against parchment. Perhaps they'd been discussing her price? Or had they dressed before the pay out…then again clothes may have never been removed. The soft scrawling stopped momentarily, a soft sigh filled its place for a moment and then all was quiet.

The eagle frowned and started towards the office entrance but paused at the door. He'd make him guilty for wasting himself on such an abomination of a woman. Losing an arm was no excuse for settling…especially for a man with such position _(as handsome)_ as the Rafiq! Altair swiftly untied his sash, draping it carefully over a rack in the corner of the room. His chest plate, gauntlets, scabbard and boots followed it, leaving the assassin in only his pants and the bloodied bandages he'd hastily applied to the halberd inflicted wound he'd received only hours ago. He peeled them away as well, scarred lips twitching as the wound pulled tight as the layer of dried blood was pulled from it with the bandages. His taut body broke into a shining sweat as the wound began to seep again, staining his sharp hip bone and the hem of his pants in dark blood. The wound was shallow but long and had been nothing but an annoyance since Altair had received it.

He ran a hand through his short hair, a flush of anger and perhaps a twinge of embarrassment stealing his tanned cheeks. "Stinking sow…" He turned abruptly towards the office entrance and strode towards the broad desk, muscle shining and flexing with stained feather in hand. He shoved the feather onto the map the unsuspecting Rafiq was bent over and folded his arms, lips tugging up in a pleased smirk. "My task has been completed, Malik." The darker man carefully laid his quill, which was constructed from a beautiful but foreign gray feather, beside the interrupted map and took up the feather Altair had placed. He studied a moment, rolling the soiled down between his once calloused fingers, seeming to test its legitimacy by feeling more than sight. Tendrils of doubt began to work through Altair's muscled form, reminding him of how long it had been since Malik had seen him without his robes…he felt suddenly naked without them.

A long, tense moment drifted by before Malik finally turned his black gaze on his once partner. Altair felt run through by those black eyes, impaled with a sudden wave of realized idiocy. The Rafiq stared at him long and hard, examining him from the top of his messied head to the dark hair that adorned the area between his hip bones. He barely seemed to note the wound, it held his critical gaze for less than a moment. He folded his arm across his chest, likely out habit more than functionality. Altair swallowed and shifted from foot to foot, eye twitching when the skin around his wound pulled tight. His mouth went dry and another layer of sweat stole over his skin. The Rafiq glowered at him for a few more agonizing moments before he finally spoke.

"Did the templars steal your clothes, novice? Or did you want to show off that chicken scratch?"

He returned to his map without another word, continuing to delicately draw out routes and landmarks and whatever else. The eagle stood stunned for several moments, feeling much like a scolded child. He looked away hatefully, brows furrowing as he thought, lips turning into a scowl. Both of his scars twisted, making his sharp face all the more fearsome as he gathered his retort. Malik glanced at him, a bit taken aback by the venom on the other man's features. What right did he have to be angry?

"I'll tend to that scrape in a-" Altair interjected the other man before he had time to rethink his harsh reply. "That whore of yours, does she smell more strongly of sweat or food?" he brought leering golden eyes to the other man's face. "Or is the smell of her desire strongest among her stinks?" Malik stood stunned, eyes wide and hand suddenly empty of anything save a fist full of air. The assassin smirked wickedly and placed his hands flat on the desk, leaning forward so only a few inches of space stood between the once friends. "Does she mount you or do you climb atop her in fear of being crushed?" Before another word could spill from the eagle's mouth, Malik slammed his tanned forehead into his chin, sending Altair reeling backwards from shock and the force of the attack. The Rafiq placed his palm on the desk and leapt gracefully over it, both feet landing squarely on Altair's chest. He crouched, lowering his face to the snarling assassins'. "What slander do you speak now, novice?" He hissed out, rage renewed in the younger man like a desert storm. Altair lurched forward, throwing an elbow into Malik's throat and all his weight into tossing him back. "The fat slut that lumbered from this very room only minutes ago!" Malik's eyes churned with confusion for a moment, rage, annoyance, uncertainty, before decidedly becoming sardonically amused above all else. "You mean the woman who brings me bread?" he laughed bitterly, which wiped Altair's face of any emotion.

Malik got up on his elbow, looking into the face of the stronger man, who still held him pinned to the stone floor. "She is not a whore, Altair. Her father is a wealthy baker and sends the girl here each day with my order in hopes of me marrying her." A caustic smile spiked with pain stole the older man's face. Altair found himself now horribly aware of the deep black pits that made up Malik's eyes. Doubt and shame and rage and self loathing swirled in them, and Altair found himself the source of all of these emotions. "His plump daughter deserves no better than a wealthy cripple."

Altair didn't move, face contorting with regret and self-loathing and hundred other emotions he was completely unfamiliar with. Malik attempted to sit up, a weariness coming over him. The strange phantom pains in his absent left arm were starting, as they often did when he was stressed. His hips ached beneath the familiar thighs of Altair and he found a he was sweating under the dark fabric of his robes. The assassin kept his hands placed on his superior's shoulders, preventing his attempts at rising. Malik submitted, laying on the floor in silence, too tired to fight in the suddenly sweltering heat. There was a heavy silence on them as they seemed to look past one another, afraid to confront what sat between them.

Bare minutes must have passed, filled with the sounds of their heavy breaths and heat, but it seemed hours before Altair quietly rose, offering a calloused and scarred hand to his old friend. Malik took it delicately and allowed the younger man to pull him to his feet, he found it difficult to get off his back at times. Altair looked into the other man's face soberly, eyes scanning his features before breaking the gaze and lowering himself onto one of the pillows situated around the short table the room held. Malik strode behind his desk and crouched carefully, his legs still strong and lean as they'd always been, perhaps even more so after the loss of his arm. He fetched a small basket containing a needle, thread and soft strips of cloth as well as a small vial of weak wine. He crossed the room quietly, avoiding Altair's face as he sat beside him on the pillows. He set the basket down and leaned to inspect the wound, brushing his thumb over the long gash.

"It will scar." He stated plainly as he sat up, Altair watching his every movement. The Rafiq gripped the wine between his thumb and forefinger while he pinched one of the cloths between pinky and ring finger. He allowed the cloth to drop to the floor and worked the cork out of the wine with his teeth. Altair tilted his head, watching with amusement. Malik had not changed for his injury, he'd adapted and moved on. Had he done the same for loss of Kadar? Malik gently poured the wine over the cloth, careful to keep the pale red substance on target. Not a drop escaped it.

He pushed the cork into the bottle with his thumb before returning the half empty vial to the table. Altair gripped the edge of the table as the alcohol was pressed into the wound, exhaling sharply as Malik gently rubbed the blood from the gash. "Careless as usual, novice." The eagle clucked breathlessly, eyes dropping shut when Malik's fingertips brushed over his hip bone. "Hold it there." Altair dropped his hand over his friend's for a moment before the elder withdrew his hold on the cloth. The eagle applied pressure to the wound, eyes shutting in quiet pain.

The Rafiq prepared the needle and thread, proving his dexterity as he looped and tied the thread with his teeth. He looked up at his comrade's face, noting the sharp angles of his chin and cheeks, the slight shadow that had grown over his strong jaw, the fan of dark lashes that rested on the eternal circles beneath his eyes….Malik bit his lip, returning his concentration to the task at hand. "Remove the cloth." Altair opened his eyes, a foggy look of pain in their alabaster depths. He lifted the cloth gingerly, eyes flicking of the wound. He never noticed the pain in battle nor when he'd been so enraged upon his arrival, but sitting quietly in the dimly lit bureau made him lethargic and sluggish. Not to say he couldn't be ready for a battle in an instant. "Drink the rest of that wine, quickly." The eagle leaned forward, the strong muscles in his abdomen clenching and flexing with the simple movement. Malik turned his face away, scoffing softly as the eagle downed the remainder of the wine. He waited a moment, watching the remaining edge of combat and emotion disappear from the assassin's eyes. "Don't flinch. You'll spoil the stitch." Altair nodded, hissing as the needle pierced his skin. Malik worked quickly and efficiently, finishing the stitch before the wine had brought a flush to Altair's bronzed skin. He wrapped the bandages tightly, striving and failing to ignore how hard the muscle adorning Altair's back proved to be.

He rose quietly, examining his work from afar as the wine worked on the assassin. "Don't move. " He left the room in a swirl of blue robes, leaving Altair to wait in silence. He ran his gaze over the bureau, noting the neatness of the scrolls and maps, the lingering smell of the incense Malik burned to help him sleep as well as the quiet rustling of feathers coming from the covered falcon cage on the far side of the room. The bureau embodied Malik in all its neatness and hidden motives and graceful danger. The assassin shut his eyes, a small sound of pain coming from his lips. The wound was not the cause.

Malik returned with a wooden tray balanced carefully on his right hand as well as a spare set of assassin's robes, he'd have Altair's cleaned and mended before he left the city if at all possible. He settled across from the assassin, placing the tray neatly beside the medical basket. Altair leaned forward and unloaded the contents of the tray, which consisted of a large bowl of green grapes, a bottle of deep red wine and loaf of dark bread. The assassin took up the bread knife and sliced the dark loaf slowly but with a practiced grace that few could mimic. "Should I expect the town bell to ring all night?" Altair glanced at him across the table, chuckling softly. "Likely. " Malik shook his head, struggling to keep an annoyed expression. Altair took up the bread knife suddenly and stabbed the point into the wine's cork, popping it out swiftly before twirling the knife among his fingers. "You would have taken off your ring finger." They both smirked, feeling like boys with scarless skin and shining eyes.

They took swigs straight from the bottle, abandoning the stiff attitudes both had taken up in recent years. "So how did you kill him?" Malik rested his chin on his hand, leaning forward as if for juicy gossip. Altair smirked, scarred lips turning up in amusement. "I learned from an informant that the heretic prays in the mosque each evening for several hours." Malik's eyes shone with youthful, if not intoxicated, light, almost like he was watching the event itself. "I scaled the dome of the building," He uppercutted the air with his blade hand, "And sliced the throats of three archers before they heard my steps." He was bragging like he would to the apprentices, talking with his hands and speaking of his skills as though they were unattainable, as though the man he spoke to hadn't once been of equal, [i]of greater[/i], skill. And his listener was just as eager to hear his stories as the apprentices were. Malik realized all of this slowly, realized he was no longer a threat to Altair, realized his career as a true assassin was ultimately over. He was an invalid. He would forever be a helper, support…"I dropped through the skylight, catching myself on the decorative molding thirty feet above him. "Altair clasped his hands together as though he were praying. "The mosque was guarded at every exit by guards armed with halberds and armored in King's steel; I didn't worry about them yet. I dropped from my perch, blade singing. My knees landed in his shoulders and the force of my fall knocked him straight to his face. I sliced the back of his neck open and sprung to my feet. Before I could reach the door one of the halberds gave me the wound…Malik?"

Malik blinked numbly, as though awoken from a dream. He smiled meekly and chuckled, laying his head on his arm, which rested on the table. "Continue your story. You tell it well." Altair stared at him, eyeing his expression quietly. He took the final sip of wine, eyes never leaving the rafiq. "What's wrong?" Malik was taken aback. Altair was a rash and blind man when it came to emotion and feeling and yet he saw through him? Malik shook his head quietly, chuckling softly. "I am envious. I can no longer do these things." The eagle scoffed and stood up without much foundation but still more gracefully than most. He circled the table until he stood behind his old friend who in turn sat up and turned over his shoulder to look at him. Altair gently placed his strong, calloused, ever scarred hands on the Rafiq's shoulders. Malik's expression narrowed to suspicion as the other man leaned down, eyes falling half lidded, until their noses nearly touched. "You are," He inched closer "always have been," he took hold of Malik's sharp chin, lips pulled up in a snarl "a fool." Malik stared at him wide eyed, lips quivering with some forgotten emotion. Altair snarled, shoving the older man back onto the table. Malik cried out as his face was shoved down against the table, only to have it jerked back into a harsh kiss. Malik felt the tension melt from him for a moment as his tongue tangled with the other man's. Altair pressed down against him, hands wandering down towards the other's hips and it felt right…Malik bit down on the other's lip, simultaneously kicking his leg out behind him and into the eagle's knee. Altair dropped to his knees, cursing in anger as he was shoved onto his back.

For a moment, Malik stood over him, eyes churning with black anger. "Go to bed novice. You have much to learn." He heard Malik stumbling across the stone floor, and then a dreadful silence.

Author's Note: Well here's the first chapter! This story is loosely based on the song _If You're Gone_ by Matchbox 20. Anyway, in the next chapter we'll get a taste of the depth of Malik's emotional turmoil and likely a little assassination action. Pretty please review, I'd like to know where my strengths and weaknesses are. Thanks for reading!

Ps. I need a beta!


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